The Fearless King (The Kings #2)(53)
She stared. “What do you have to apologize for?”
“I obviously gave you the wrong impression.”
“No, I think you were pretty damn clear about what you thought of my ability to protect you.” And, damn it, it stung. No matter how justified his belief was, she selfishly wanted one person in her life to believe she was capable of standing on her own—of standing between them and the monsters.
Frank turned to look out over the water. The moonlight played along the planes of his face, as if it couldn’t resist touching him any more than she could. He sighed. “It’s not personal.”
That surprised a laugh from Journey. “Bullshit.”
“What?”
“Bull. Shit,” she bit out. “If I was Beckett—”
“If you were Beck, I’d react the same damn way.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “We each have a role to play in this life, Duchess. I protect. Beck wouldn’t let me step in with your mother, and I value his friendship too much to shit on his wishes. He handled it, yeah, but he didn’t ignore my offer of help out of sheer pride, either.”
She waited for him to realize the irony of what he was saying, but he just kept watching her with that implacable look on his face. Journey dug her toes into the sand and huddled deeper into his jacket, letting the faint scent of him wrap around her like some kind of security blanket. There was something there, something in his voice…
The truth all but landed at her feet.
He thinks he failed. It’s not that I tried to protect him—he would be handling it as gracefully if anyone protected him.
Relief swarmed her, leaving exhaustion in its wake. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter if Frank didn’t believe Journey could stand as an equal or if he legitimately didn’t believe that anyone could stand as his equal. He’d reacted poorly, and she turned it around and made things all about her. As if her pain was the only thing that mattered.
Frank was more an enigma than anyone she’d ever met. Something happened to make him cling this tightly to the role of protector. Not his father, though that was a fucked-up situation. It has to be his mother. “Frank…what happened to her?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. What little openness he had left in his expression disappeared, transforming him back into the cold real estate mogul she’d first met. “Leave it alone, Duchess. That has nothing to do with anything.” He shook his head and softened his tone. “Just…let it go.”
Without another word, he turned and headed back toward the house, leaving her alone on the beach.
*
Frank knew Journey trailed him back to the house, but he didn’t look back. Past and present clashed in a toxic mix inside him, Journey’s sad determination melded with his mother’s despair and eventual resignation. They weren’t the same. His mother stopped fighting after his father went to prison. Between one day and the next, she gave up and became a shadow of the woman she’d been. Not even her teenage son could convince her that life was worth living once she took that first step—though Frank hadn’t realized that truth until many years later. He couldn’t have stopped her from making the choice she had, couldn’t have saved her.
Different situation. Different circumstances.
Journey is a different woman.
For all her jagged edges, he couldn’t imagine Journey slipping softly into death’s dark embrace. She would fight until the bitter end, even if it was a losing battle. She wouldn’t give up facing a sickness any more than she was giving up facing her own personal boogeyman. Elliott scared the shit out of her, knocked her down again and again, but she still climbed back to her feet and kept going forward, step by stumbling step.
Frank opened the sliding door and moved back to let Journey precede him. She shot him a look but walked into the house and set the bottle on the counter. He waited for her to rekey the alarm. Now was the time to head up to his room and reestablish the boundaries they’d trampled all over today. They couldn’t be what each other needed, and muddying the waters further was a mistake. But when he opened his mouth, that wasn’t what came out. “Come here.”
“You sure?” Her mouth quirked, as if she’d tried to fake a smile and her face hadn’t cooperated. “Because a hug might be too much like leaning on another person for you to stomach. I might crumble and then where would you be?”
Frank held out a hand and motioned her forward imperiously. “You aren’t the only person with scars in this room, Duchess. Makes us prickly bastards, but we’re stronger because of the pain we’ve gone through.”
Still, she didn’t move. She just stared at him with those big hazel eyes as if trying to read his mind. “I don’t know what you’re smoking, but I’m not stronger because of what I went through. Or did you miss that time I was curled in a ball on my floor because of a single fucking touch?”
Frank wished he could go back in time and deal with Elliott Bancroft at her apartment differently. The man hadn’t shed nearly enough blood in payment for the damage he’d inflicted. “You survived, Journey. You kept living and didn’t give up because of the hurt writhing around inside you. You’re a successful professional, and you’ve managed to hold down at least a handful of healthy relationships with your siblings and with Samara. That’s winning from where I’m sitting.”